This Is The Magic Lucky Word Count. Reblog For Creativity Juice. It Might Even Work, Who Knows.

May you never lose joy in writing

🌸🌺🥀🌼💕

#1,484

I picked up

one of those perfect published

poetry anthologies

flipping through its pages

fumbling for this authors sense of style

tripping headfirst into the phrase

“if writing would kill you, would you still write?”

my joints crack on impact

god there are weeks

when i can’t even dream

of pen and paper’s sordid affairs

but there are moments upon moments

where it’s the only impulse

I have left

i may never achieve

that coveted haven

on a barnes and nobles

new releases shelf

but god damn

i

will

write

until

i

die

or

i

cease

to

be

complete

marie howe, in an interview with krista tippett of on being

To try to do anything in this day and age is courageous. Even if you suck at least you’re fucking doing something. You’re creating something. You are doing SOMETHING. That in itself is a courageous act.

*takes your face gently in my hands and looks sincerely into your eyes* listen. your home does not need to look like a showroom. homes are meant to be lived in, and that means a certain amount of mess. it's okay if there is clutter on your desk or if you don't remember the last time you cleaned your oven. mess is morally neutral. but at the same time, you deserve to live in an environment that is safe and comfortable, and that means someone has to clean sometimes. things like mold, spoiled food, and dirty litter boxes are genuine health hazards and need to be dealt with before they make someone sick. think of cleaning less as "my home needs to be completely spotless" and more as "I am an animal and I need a habitat that is free of hazardous material." it's okay. *kisses you on the forehead and tucks you into a blanket*

(and of course it is always acceptable and even good for you to ask someone else to help you with cleaning if it's physically or mentally difficult for you. even if you're paying them to do it.)

#1,501

blistered fingertips scratch against constricting linen

i lay in a bed of moss

underneath my grandmothers afghan

and woke surrounded in mold

the clay beneath

tugs, tearing open old gashes

revealing layers of decay

interlocking rigid muscle tissue

every motion scattering spores

i find myself coughing, clenching

crawling through the colonies

for

i am not

your

host

i am only

flesh

and

blood

and yet

that flesh is powdered in mildew

that blood is blooming

i will not yield

i swear

i will taste fresh air

alongside a mushroom omelette

without an inkling of a sour memory

but i fear

i am

rotting

Richard Hugo, Essay on Poetic Theory: The Triggering Town

- Silas Denver Melvin @sweatermuppet, Grit Poetry Collection

— Jenny Slate, Little Weirds